


un mariage pour la paix

by saernamaz



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Kinda, M/M, and on marguerite de valois and henri iv, it is based on st bartholomew's massacre, no major character death though, only side characters whom no one cares abt, though with like;; feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24403840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saernamaz/pseuds/saernamaz
Summary: "The scene was raw now that he had been addressed, and he no longer could pretend to detach himself from it: a child of nineteen sold to loveless marriage by an uncle who had no care for him in the least, it was what he was."*********In an effort to appease tensions in a torn France, King Laurent is offered in marriage to King Damianos of Navarre, in the hope that a symbolical union might ease things out, by his power-hungry, and scheming uncle. Peace is a fleeting thing in Paris...
Relationships: Aimeric/Laurent (Captive Prince), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Damen/Nikandros (Captive Prince), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	1. le mariage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i found this old ass draft on my old computer and honestly,,,, i dig it.
> 
> will i ever finish this ? i sure hope so. will i be crazy slow to do it ? hell yeah.
> 
> also........ my computer died for a whole two month so i didn't get to finish other fics i started (classic), and mass deleted pics in a fit of self-consciousness, so what's up lol
> 
> anyway, hope you like this <3

A marriage for peace, it was all it was, Laurent told himself as he kneeled before the bishop of Notre-Dame and the ambassadors of the pope in Paris. Their embroidered red robes and pretiosae, richly decorated mitres, mirrored the ostentatious cathedral, grey pillars draped in satin veils and golden candles flickering away, as well as his own marital costume. Tightly laced in his red silks, decorated with golden patterns of flowers that shone in the firelight, he felt safe and protected. The royal crown that haloed him reminded him of his position, ― the youngest son of King Aleron II of France, the current King in the wake of his older brother’s death to illness ―, and that this masquerade was only decorum. His husband, ― this dark, obscure, foreign figure―, could not touch him. All of this was symbolic, and not genuine. If he so wished, he could escape his marital duties, every gesture of affection husbands normally shared between them, and pretend the man did not exist nor shared his life.

The choir started to sing a hymn in the glory of the Lord as the Church’s youth plunged the place in incense. Laurent could feel the burning gaze of the audience on him, and more particularly that of his uncle, an unfortunate and forced advisor solely because he had been the Regent in Laurent’s stead for two years after Auguste’s passing, the mastermind between this odd peace treaty. He wished to appease the Protestant Nations by marrying him off to the King of Navarre, and to temper the Saint Pope in Rome, who disagreed with the treatment of the Protestants in France, accusing the Crown of being too kind. A marriage would justify the lax politics of the Council. But most importantly, it was an alliance with the Huguenots that he sought. Riots were becoming a recurrence and the economy of the kingdom was sorely declining, while the Crown faced new threats from Spain and Austria, the enemies willing to commit France to war over the religion of his husband. Laurent wondered if the marriage was also a way to keep him leashed and preoccupied, leaving his uncle and the Council to scheme while he had to deal with the task of finding an heir to the kingdom and keeping the relationship with Damianos amiable and cordiale at least.

Sprawled lazily on the throne behind the promised young men, his uncle watched Laurent’s reactions intensely. The boy’s distaste for heretics was known among courtiers. He did not hate them for their beliefs, but in a boyish petulance, for he only wanted to go against his uncle, again and again, with the knowledge that he was untouchable as of now. Next to Laurent, his soon-to-be husband, Damianos I King of Navarre, reflected his position, on his knees before the figure who preached another faith as his own, tensed and stoic. He had never glanced at Laurent since the ceremony began with Laurent’s procession to the altar. The bishop blessed the consorts, drawing the cross in the air before them.

“Damianos, King of Navarre, will you have this man to your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love him, comfort him, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health? And forsaking all other keep you only to him, so long as you both shall live?”

“I do.”

“Laurent, King of France and Aquitaine, will you have this man to your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love him, comfort him, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health? And forsaking all other keep you only to him, so long as you both shall live?”

Laurent kept silence, looking serenely at the bishop and holding the old man’s gaze. He tried to hide his sparrow heart behind a cool façade. The words could not form on his tongue, his throat felt too tight and he hurt. He forced himself not to shake before his people, breathing steadily, trying desperately to calm his rising anxiety. The scene was raw now that he had been addressed, and he no longer could pretend to detach himself from it: a child of nineteen sold to loveless marriage by an uncle who had no care for him in the least, it was what he was. There was no escaping his fate. His uncle apparently took his silence for defiance, and before the bishop could repeat his sentence, his uncle rose from his chair in a swift movement and forced Laurent to bend into the matrimonial cushion in front of them. He violently hit the fabric and let out a muffled sound of pain, which the bishop took as an ‘I do’ and he pronounced them husband and husband. Laurent straightened slowly, no longer saddened but consumed by a tranquil anger, directed at his uncle, his husband, the whole of France.

Aimeric of Guise, the son of a Royal Councilor, a pampered boy half a year his junior, stepped forward to place a red veil on Laurent’s head. The fabric was long and soft, enveloping Laurent delicately and cascading to the ground. Aimeric gave his King a sheepish smile when he saw the closed, smooth face of his friend. He despised Protestants more than Laurent ever did, a passionate and true hate that could not be smothered by a wedding, the King realized when he saw the pity in his confidant’s eyes. He knew that a wedding could not alleviate years of tension in just a few hours, but he had hoped that it would have eased them more, to give a spirit to his sacrifice.

Aimeric retreated slowly to his father side, and the courtiers all stood up at once, Catholics in their rich and colorful attires, and Huguenots with their simple and dark garbs alike. The organ started to play, accompanying the Hallelujah’s of the choir. Laurent and Damianos both stood and linked their arms together to reinforce the feeling of union between them. His husband was a soldier, having fought in several battles against Spain to defend his small kingdom from conquests, and had the stature of one, tall and muscular. He was an impressive figure, and he slightly frightened Laurent. But the man was delicate in his gestures and barely held Laurent’s arm, just an angel touch, grazing the fabric and never bruising the skin. The boy almost found the politeness to thank him for his kindness, but his uncle approached them before he could speak. He bowed deferentially before the newlyweds, a courtly smile plastered on his hard face.

“Damianos, in offering you my nephew, I give my heart to every Protestant of my kingdom. You are a part of our family now.”

His thumb caressed Laurent’s cheekbone, and the young boy resisted the urge to jerk back at the contact, a gesture of domination more than fondness for a relative. The Protestant smiled at the Regent’s word and bowed his hand respectfully in gratitude. The older man took his dismissal without another word and stepped behind the couple, to follow the procession according to the rules. The retinue started to walk toward the imposing doors of the cathedral, passing by the crowd of plebeians and nobles, who saluted them, some more enthusiastically than other. Laurent forced himself to smile softly, to appear pleased with the wedding himself, to encourage others to be, as he stepped onto the red dais that had been erected in the middle of the procession, to flaunt the spouses and erect them as models. Laurent felt the eyes of each member of the assistance tearing him apart, piercing through his clothes and rending him naked and vulnerable under their judgement. They stood still for a short moment, during which the bishops passed before them.

“Please, do not hate me immediately, everyone here already does,” his husband spoke softly, eyes barely hiding his distress at finding himself surrounded by hostile lords in a foreign capital. His French was impeccable.

“I do not. It is not the purpose of this marriage,” he answered, haughtily, his chin held high and proud.

“You do not have to pretend to be brave and fearless with me.”

“I am not afraid. Why would I be? I have more allies than enemies here.”

“Could the people who forced a marriage on you be called allies and friends?”

“They did it for peace.”

His husband sighed and let the conversation drop. Behind them, Damianos’ most trusted advisor, Nikandros, had joined the retinue and was talking to an older man from Navarre, which he vaguely recognized as a minor Count from Northern Spain, a Protestant called Makedon, who wholeheartedly supported the wedding. Laurent found himself carefully listening, to try and decipher any information he could.

“I know that you must not be very happy about how it all turned out,” Makedon said, and it seemed woeful, as if Nikandros’ issue with the wedding could be personal and not just political. Laurent could only think of one reason for the ruth in the man’s voice, and he smiled discreetly. Good, he thought, at least he would not turn to him for warmth in the winter. “But look at this, Catholics and Huguenots side and side in the house of God, isn’t it grand? This marriage is a symbol, that we need. That the Protestants need.”

Nikandros shrugged, cutting the conversation short. The advisor was in a visible fool mood and Laurent wondered if it was because of the remark Count Makedon had made. It would be terribly amusing if such a virile and hard man was affected by the cognizance that his King was not his to marry. Damianos could still go to his chambers and offer him his undivided attention, but somehow the notion that they could not be officially exclusive hurt the advisor.

Disinterested by matters of the heart, Laurent soon turned his discreet attention to his uncle, who spoke quietly with the Duke of Guise. He did not trust that man, and found him perfectly disreputable, for the simple reason that he always found a way into his uncle’s parlor and was of a warmonger character. War was to him the plainest path to the enrichment of France and to bring it to glory. Laurent had tempered his belligerent ideas as of now, for he was still the one in charge of wars and foreign affairs, despite the Council’s balanced power in the economical and juridical fields, but he was suspicious of his uncle, believing he would follow his advice soon, and plunge the kingdom into warfare and misery through deceit and plots, and somehow blame it on his unruly nephew and his rebellious temperament, so unfit to rule. But they spoke too inaudibly for Laurent to understand what they said, which made him all the more anxious. He shook the uneasiness and sickness in his stomach away, as the bishops opened the gigantic doors of the cathedral, finally presenting the spouses to the common folk, and setting him free at last.

*****

The feast that followed the ceremony was just as sumptuous and extravagant, with rows of tables garnished with delicate meals and desserts, exotic fruits and spiced meats. Musicians played on their kitharas and harps fatuous or erotic songs in the honor of the royal couple, to which courtiers danced, entranced and inebriated. The ladies danced, showing their ankles discreetly, whereas the men either quipped together or played dices with the children. The Louvre was fluttering with agitation in a liveliness it rarely knew. Pearls and silks, satin and cotton waltzed in the gardens, while the wine flowed red and the air filled with excitement and laughter. Every lord and lady of France and Navarre had been invited to the festivities, including the low nobility, viscounts, barons, knights and gentlemen, who were not invited to the religious ceremony.

Among the crowd, Laurent was lazily sitting on the ground, surrounded by cousins and his usual retinue, notable sons of Marquesses or Dukes, content with watching the rest of the court make fools of themselves. He had stepped out of his marital regalia to recline in a less incapacitating costume, a blue embroidered shirt, which he had let slightly open to reveal pale collarbones and the beginning of his breast, and a black pair of high waisted pants. He had adorned his head with a simple golden circle which lay gracefully on his forehead and had kept on his pair of pearly earrings. Even in his simplicity, the boy could see that he attracted the eyes of numerous nobles, who wandered his body shamelessly. If he did not encourage it, Laurent did not forbid it either, as long as no one made any move toward him. His guards, Jord and Lazar, were well informed of this, and stopped any man who inappropriately touched their King, no matter their ranks.

Still, Aimeric stepped up behind him and plastered his body languidly against his, throwing his arms around his waist in a boyish manner. He was still sophisticatedly dressed in his cream costume from the morning ceremony, but he had discarded the headband made of pearls he wore, letting his chestnut curls curl naturally to his chin. Laurent thought that it complimented his green eyes magnificently and emphasized his high cheekbones in a most pleasing manner.

Laurent saw Jord raise an inquisitive eyebrow, and smiled softly at him, before leaning in his companion’s embrace. The guard relaxed and went back to chatting softly with the other. The King’s eyes wandered to a group of men in dark clothes, among which his husband, who had not traded outfits, still laced up in his black satins, which were only lightened up by scarce touches of pure white at the extremities. He recognized a few figures, Makedon, Nikandros, his husband’s brother Kastor, but he did not know most of them.

He pointed at a youthful, dark-skinned man in is husband’s company. The man had soft features and delicate curls cascading to his shoulders, but the clear body of a fighter, rough and angular. His posture was carefree, and he smiled brightly at Damianos, who returned it. He turned toward Aimeric, when he felt the young man follow his pointed finger to the man. “Who is he?”

“Pallas, the son of a viscount in Navarre. Twenty. Pretty smile, athletic and nice,” Aimeric said lightheartedly. Laurent nodded along, biting back a smile. “But he lives with his sister.”

Both teenagers let out a loud giggle, which brought colors to their cheeks and the attention of several people around the small group. Laurent pointed at another man, older than Pallas but sharing his dark complexion and smooth features, although his nose was sharper and his jaw rounder. He wore his curls cut clean, a sensitive crown on his head. He leaned tranquilly on a pillar, watching his King closely. “What about this one?”

“Aktis, twenty-four, a soldier in your husband’s guard. Some say he’s a fanatic.” Aimeric made a face. “He has small legs,” he said derisively, which made Laurent smile fondly at his antics.

“And this one?” Laurent asked as designated a young boy, slim and lean, looking faintly frightened and lost among the crowd. His olive skin accentuated the freckles and beauty marks that roamed his smooth face, which still bore the roundness of childhood.

“Isander of Aoiz, nineteen. His father is a count. Poor thing looks like a startled fawn.”

“He really does,” Laurent nodded calmly. “You would think he would have experience with a court.”

Aimeric shrugged. “I think he has, but that it went badly. That, or they were talking about how you are going to kill your husband in his sleep, and he took it at face value.”

Both boys continued to watch the group of Protestants discuss among themselves, scrutinizing them as much as the other courtiers did. Laurent wondered if the last remark could have been veridical, and if they really believed that Laurent would take their King’s life. He valued peace, and had no wish to kill Damianos, as bothersome as his presence could be. His gaze unconsciously led him to him, and he watched his husband talk fervently with Nikandros. His face was neutral, but Laurent could see the tension in the way he bore his head, slightly forward, challenging his partner. His eyes sometimes twitched in Laurent’s direction, and once, their eyes met. Damianos fell silent in midsentence, and Laurent realized that they were indeed speaking about him, and not in very mellow manner. He turned his head slowly and rested it on Aimeric’s breast.

“How could you have married this muttonhead is beyond me,” Aimeric whispered as he stroked his hair. Laurent tittered. “As if it would ever work.”

“Do not be jealous, you know I am yours, always. Although, it is true that I never slept with a Protestant…”

Aimeric laughed earnestly, which brought the attention of the group of Protestants to them and kissed his hair loudly. “Ah, well, you will tell me how it goes. Come, we will join them.”

Aimeric stood and extended his hand for Laurent. The older boy took it and stood shakily on his legs, which felt faint by sitting for such a prolonged period of time. “What? With my husband’s retinue?”

His friend shook his head and passed an arm around his waist, a pose Laurent immediately mirrored with a beam. From the corner of his eye, he saw his uncle advance toward them, and he urged them both toward his husband, a chance at solace. Unfortunately, his uncle cornered them before, and put his hand around Laurent’s bicep to keep him firmly in place. “Your Grace,” he said, his face distorting in kind smile that did not suit his nefarious soul and ascetic, wrinkled face. He bowed slightly.

“Uncle,” Laurent gave him a brief, polite smile, that made bile threaten to rush out of his mouth. “How are the festivities treating you?”

“Good so far. Aimeric, please leave us.” The boy’s eyes widened, and he looked at Laurent for approval. Warily, the King nodded and let his friend slip out quietly from his arms. “You should stop frequenting him.”

“Lord Aimeric? He is well intentioned and is of nice company. Why should I?”

“Do not take me for a fool, Laurent,” his uncle said in a murmur, his face stern and closed. His voice descended an octave, and the hand that still held his bicep spasmed imperceptibly. “Everyone in this court knows that you two have been fooling around. Gossip reaches your council, boy.”

“What I do behind closed doors is none of your concern. Although I thought that you would be content with me securing the son to my cause, once you decide to dispose of the father.”

Laurent regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Were they not in public, his uncle would have hit him. A delayed punishment would be far worse, or so he remembered, thinking about the tutor his uncle was to him, mean-spirited and keen on torment. He had not been faulty about his uncle’s illicit activities. Courtiers whispered behind pillars of the King’s advisor poisoning habit. Laurent knew that his uncle had poisoned his fair share of political adversaries, and he could not eat a meal that was left untested.

“Careful, Laurent. You know better than to be impertinent in my presence, do you not? I did not come for your attitude, but to forbid you to seek love elsewhere than in your husband’s embrace for now on.”

“I beg pardon?”

“What image would this marriage give if the whole of France knew their King was whoring himself out to all the people in the country? You have responsibilities now, and you will give yourself, flesh, blood and spirit, to that Protestant, or so help me God, you will regret it.”

The King stayed silent, rising his chin in challenge. The older man took his cue to leave, staring at his nephew one last time, before bowing accordingly to his rank and retire for his own suite, an arrangement of council men and important dukes, drowning under smooth silk and pearls, their own entitlement and privileges. Laurent despised them, and barely looking at them made him recoil. He turned toward the Huguenots, whispering among themselves without sparing the catholic court any more glances. He casually walked to them, ignoring the calls of catholic nobles to come join them in festivities.

The men were too engrossed in their conversation, spoken hushedly in Catalan, to notice him. He thought about spying, then, but ultimately, there was nothing they could say he did not know. Protestants were easy to read, easier to understand. He did not need to hear any names, to know they were talking about Paris, about him, about his kingdom, damning them for existence and seeking a touch of solace in schemes, as if they could forestall the French nobility in the subtle art of plots and secrets.

He put his hand on his husband’s bicep, a signal for him to acknowledge his presence. Damianos jumped, and looked at him with wild eyes.

“Your Grace,” he said, breathless. Around him, the Protestants fell silence, waiting for a sign of their King. Nikandros was the first to courtly bow, and the rest followed. Damen did not have to bow, as his husband and equal.

“Please, call me by my given name. We are joined now, are we not?”

“Of course, Laurent.” He exchanged a suspicious look with Nikandros, who simply studied Laurent with cancelled rage. “May I help you?”

“I… came to inquire about you, actually. How is Paris treating you? I noticed you do not wish to mingle with the rest of the court. Are they of any trouble to you?”

“It is… tense. But nothing I would not have excepted from an anti-Protestant bastion.”

“The purpose of our union is to calm these tensions. They just need to adjust. They will come to support it.”

“The same way your Pope supports it?” It was Nikandros who spoke, venom dripping from his lips like fine wine.

“I see gossip travels fast. But you are council now, so you ought to know. It is true that the Pope has yet to… sign the permit for the marriage, but it does not make it any less relevant legally.”

“Without the Pope, that marriage is a farce. The Catholics will not bow to King Damianos unless the Pope recognizes him.”

“Nikandros, enough,” Damen said hurriedly, watching Laurent intensely. “We do not need petty discourse, not now.”

Nikandros watched Damianos with pleading eyes. His King merely tilted his head and sighed. That simple gesture managed to rein in the councilman, and Laurent could see the extend of their relation. Unspoken words floating in the air, the deep loyalty between them that made Nikandros pledge himself to his King and never question him, always advising him but never outplaying him. Laurent felt uneasy, his stomach clenching in jealousy.

“My apologies, your Grace, for my friend’s behavior. Your words are a great comfort in these troubled times. We need as much time to adjust to your court as it needs to warm to us. I stand with you on this wedding, it is a prosperous opportunity and Europe will come to see it too and embrace and tolerate the protestant faith in the end.”

Laurent gave him a soft smile. “It is all I can hope for. Please come to me if you ever have any trouble. It is my duty to care for you all, and my kingdom will too. I will leave you to your festivities now. Enjoy Paris, gentlemen.”

*****

The rooms were dark and chill. Fine smoke elevated into the air, filling the royal quarters with mist. Laurent had blown out the candles, letting the night engulf his naked silhouette and the white sheets of the bed he dared not look. Outside, the regal moon seemed to taunt him, surrounded by twinkling lights and the song of cicadas, high and alone. It was full, bright, and a good auspice had said the royal astrologist, a good omen for a wedding night, the promise of love and tenderness. The King whispered a prayer, a uniform chant everyone knew, but without meaning. He did not know what he was praying for, not really. The King prayed for calm and stillness, the noble prayed for good fortune and health, the boy prayed to be elsewhere. Laurent had come to realize that he could only be one of them, and that most of the time, he had to be King.

The wooden door of the bedroom squealed behind him, bringing a cascade of gold into the room. He heard some whispers, and footsteps. The door closed, and the room was once again dark, bathed in only the moonlight. His husband stood near the bed, his eyes roaming over his body. Laurent forced himself to breath steadily, and to look at a point in the distance.

“What are you doing?” he heard his husband whisper, soft with wine and entertainments. 

“What do you mean, what am I doing? You know what this is.”

He took a careful step forward, forcing himself to face Damianos. His mouth was half open, slack with a night of pleasure, but his eyes seemed to be focused and alert. He was watching Laurent’s face. The Huguenot brought his hands toward Laurent, and his fingers grazed his shoulders, leaving a trail of goosebumps where the digits had lain.

“You are trembling like a leaf.”

“I am unexperienced, that is all.”

“That is not what the court said.” Laurent averted his eyes, and blinked his discomfort away. It was true that he entertained suitors for the childish pleasure of attention, but he had never let any of them share his bed, not even Aimeric. Sexuality meant baring himself, exposing his flesh to judgment and himself to the gaze of a tribunal. He would never do it without purpose, without a reason. Weakness did not suit a King, nor did trust. “Laurent, look at me… Why are you doing this?”

“You are my husband,” he said, softer than he intended to.

“That… Laurent, I—… You do not have to do this. You hated me just mere hours ago.”

“But it is my duty, as your husband, and as a King, to ensure intimacy and love with you. The people need to know that we are joined, in the bedroom as well as in court.”

“We do not have to lay together for that. I will not lay with you tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Do not get me wrong, you are an attractive young man, but you do not wish to sleep with me, not now. I will not force you. Please, get dress and join me to rest.”

His breath caught in his throat, and he watched as Damianos walked past him to go to the washing room. He felt foolish, like a boy chastised for a mistake he had done, and oddly rejected. He had never felt as such since he was fifteen, and had been abandoned by his all family at once.

“Here,” Damianos said, extending a white cotton robe to him, his black curls damp from his quick bath. His voice was soft and reassuring. Laurent did not know how much time he had spent lost in thoughts. He pulled it on quickly, hiding the remnants of his shame away.

“Thank you,” he said. And he meant it. Damianos smiled at him, and extended a hand to him.

“Come. I know you are scared and pressured, but… I want it to be easy between us.”

“Easy…”

“Yes, Laurent,” he laughed softly. “Easy. Sleep now, you must be as exhausted as I am.”

Laurent took his hand, almost shyly, and let himself be led to bed, finding comfort in the clean and warm embrace of the sheets on him. He went to sleep gratefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw, lamen week is soon (late june i think ??) and i might participate so... stay tuned ig
> 
> ohhh and don't hesitate to ask questions if u get confused by all the pseudo historical, etc bits i tried to include ??? <333 i love this period tbh (though ive like,,, missed this semester in uni)


	2. le massacre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for potential triggers: mentions of csa, nothing graphic, but it is there and heavily implied. but please be careful. 
> 
> as always.... not beta'd so im sorryyyyy for any mistakes, especially since my computer is racist enough to correct my words the way i do NOT want to. honestly, that's antigypsyism.

“Clean sheets, nephew.”

“Experience does make us proper, wouldn’t you say, uncle? I am hardly a child anymore, nor is my husband.”

His uncle gave him a tight smile, the sarcasm not lost on him. Laurent wanted to rip it off him. That everyone in France could be so entitled to his bed was weighting on him, now that he had tasted the first glimpse of what it could be without prying eyes. Damianos had been thoughtful to him, had seen the man behind the King, and had introduced him to something simpler. Intimacy goes beyond myrthe. It should be enough to his kingdom, to know they did not hate each other and shared a space, and friendly mannerisms. That their marriage was well, a symbol of peace, appeasement for all the foreign powers threatening France and the tension in their own kingdom, bordering on civil war. Laurent had been foolish to listen to his uncle, to _still_ listen to him after everything.

His power-hungry, sinful, unlawful, treacherous uncle. His presence was a reminder of the child he still was, powerless and easily led by men more than thrice his age, who could never see him past the Crown or some sweet pouty lips to puppet and use. He bore his crafted, carefully cultivated confidence around his court, strutting in it, only for it to crumble when his kin ordered him. A mad part in him was perhaps still convinced of some veiled love his uncle could have for him, begging to please, or maybe just to survive his uncle and his poisoned schemes.

“You know I only want what is best for France.”

Laurent could not hold back a scoff. “Of course.”

“Do not be childish, Laurent. Come now, the council is waiting for us.”

His uncle extended an arm out for him, that Laurent took reluctantly. The portraits on the wall of the hallway looked at him, former Kings and Queens, in regal apparat, pitifully watching him become a shadow of their greatness, reminding him he was not fit to rule, never raised to. Especially when he passed by Auguste’s warm smile and high held scepter. The red curtains around his portrait made him sick. The red of France, eclipsing the blue of the monarchy dominating the painting, an ironic thought, the monarch, prisoner of his own kingdom, easily replaceable and easily forgotten in a hallway, where people passed by daily but never seemed to stop to look and remember.

The council room was already packed with men, in small groups, discussing among themselves, trying not to look conspicuous to the group next to them. It was a small room in a tower, more roundish than square, with a table in the middle meant to host ten councilmen, and now two Kings. France and Navarre were united by the ties of marriage, and Laurent now governed over both. The room was bare today, in work of being rearranged to make France and Navarre coexist in a symbolic room, to ally the bordeaux of Navarre and the deep red of France, the navy blue of the monarchy and Aquitaine, the gold of the Akielos family. As soon as Laurent had entered the room, all gazes gravitated toward him, each holding different meanings, depending on the origin and the faction. Disappointment, pride, loyalty, disregard. He did not care. Damianos cleared his throat and called for the councilmen to sit and begin. He held out Laurent’s chair for him, and gave him a private smile. His husband returned it, true and honest. Damianos, foreign as he was, could be trusted, he thought. He was a forthright man, and he worked toward peace as much as Laurent did.

Council was held for two hours, during which they discuss the state of the two Kingdoms, and especially the bad crops in Lorraine and the Centre, temperamental regions and the main source of harvests, which were a terrible omen of rough winter, and the subsequent famine that would result. Laurent had proposed to privilege the common people and give the crops to them, to cut the supplies sent to the Louvre by a third at least, and to hold the meat industry to allow more grains to be used for bread and other substantial food. Damianos had proposed the construction of aqueducs in the style of Navarre, to better nourish the earth, and a new agricultural plan. Lord Berenger and lady Vannes, influent member of the French court and trustworthy allies of the Vere line approved of both these propositions, as well as numerous member of the councilmen from Navarre. But it was not enough to win the favor of the majority. Lord Marthe, an old duke, but prince by blood of the Southern province had largely discredited this plan, talking about the aspect of finance as it was, and discarding the idea of using the royal treasure to found these projects. His uncle, who had the same obtuse passion of going against his kin, had supported Marthe. Every old councilmen, those who served his brother, and even his father before him, had rejoined his uncle, trusting his maturity and skill at regency. To them, Laurent, all youthful eyes and high traits, was a green leader, an idealist without any value for ancient order and a stubborn, petulant child. He had dismissed them with tight fists. ‘ _The Kings_ **must** _be tired after their wedding night,’_ Vannes had laughed then, and it was a good enough excuse, for all stood, excruciatingly slowly and left, bowing politely to their kings.

“Your council is difficult,” Damianos said, then.

“My uncle likes to defy me at any turn, as if he still held the crown.”

He left without another word.

*****

Laurent abandoned himself tin work. The library was a calm respite, with only the sound of ink drying on paper and the creak of the feather he held carefully in his hand. Only a cool breeze came to disturb him, filtering through the open window, which opened on an abandoned garden. His mind was entirely devoted to the letter laid before him, signed with the seal of Aquitaine. It was a letter from his young cousin Nicaise, who had inherited Aquitaine when Laurent became King. He seemed to take his duties as seriously as any youth of sixteen could, which was not very much, except when under the threat of a correction, should he not devote himself to his lands. He spoke of a few altercations between Protestants and Catholics, which were promptly stopped and trialed. The crops seemed healthy as for now, but as always, did not produce much, except perfectly ripe grapes for wine. Fish were plenty, though, and they had caught enough to be able to send some to the capital. Nothing else to report of importance. He finished his letter by inquiring about Laurent.

He had half a mind to confess all the troubles that shook Paris, that the Guise, one of the most prominent catholic family in all of Paris had trouble adjusting to the apparent threat that the Condé, a respectable protestant French family, now represented, since Damianos became the King of France. They feared for their reputation and power. It had resulted in tense banters and even a duel, aborted by chance by one of Laurent’s guard, who had reported to him after the council. The crops were also of concern, of course, as well as the finance of the Kingdom, who was slowly wasted into entertainment and frivolous intents. And of course, Paris in great turmoil, recoiling at the idea of being led by a Protestant, his council refusing to listen to him, again and again, and the presence of his husband, which was both a curse and a blessing. But instead, he just wrote pleasantries, that he was fine, and sprinkled some dry humor he was sure Nicaise would like in it.

The rest of his afternoon was spent reading, an interesting read about aqueducs in Navarre and the logistics behind it. His husband’s project had not been unrealizable, nor mad. It was perfectly sensible, and could bring the right amount of water to dry zones in the South to alleviate the losses in the North and in the Centre due to the hot weather. He was so engrossed in his reading that he barely registered the sun setting on the horizon, until a maid came in to light some candles around Laurent. He did not spare her any attention, leaving her to work in silence and relative peace, going back to his book.

It was until a deaf sound made him jolt. He put down his book on the sofa. “Is everything alright?”

No one answered. The maid had left a long time, he realized, as he saw the wax begin to drip on the wooden floor. It seemed he had overstayed his welcome, and that no servant was coming. He promptly blew the remaining candles out, and exited the library. The hallway of the left wing were strangely empty, except for two of his guards, Orlant and Jord, who had been on guarding duty, and who seemed to have heard the noise too, alert and with a hand on the pommel of their sword. Jord spared him a worried glance, to which Laurent nodded, a simple gesture to ensure that he was sound.

The faint sound of footsteps could be heard in a perpendicular hallway, the rhythm and crescendoindicating that the people were running toward their hallway. His guards tensed next to him, until the deep red livery of the Louvre’s soldier came to view. The regiment was led by the imposing and grunt figure of Govart, who was snickering to himself. He and his men came to a halt at Laurent’s level. The bulky man refused to drop the smirk.

“Your Grace, you should go back to your apartments. Your uncle’s orders.”

“I do not believe you went all this way just to fetch me, nor with this much men. What is happening?”

“Guion de Guise is dead. Murdered by Protestants, apparently.”

*****

Pretty lies on the tongue of a viper. The so-called trial was a farce.

As soon has Guise had been pronounced dead, his body still warm to the touch and blood still a marvelous red, men came to arrest all of the Huguenots of the Palace, on his uncle’s order — of course it was — including his husband. Laurent had to threaten soldiers of execution to get a say in all of this and be escorted to the main hall. ‘It is not safe, your Grace. Your uncle’s orders.’ His uncle, and all of his schemes and plots could go to Hell.

The hall was now quiet, as his uncle finished his report. Guise had been shot and defenestrated, and evidence seemed to point to the Huguenots, probably some lackeys on the orders of the Condé, or maybe a plot by King Damianos himself to plunge France into civil war and be its sole sovereign. The accusation of treachery had caused some turmoil among the Protestants, and they had be physically reined in. It only solidified his uncle’s testimony, according to court. Then, Laurent had asked for the proof, but, as magically as they had discovered it, it was gone. ‘A trick, probably, a servant or some other slave.’

Among the public, Laurent could spot Aimeric, his eyes red and fists clenched. He had never been close to his father, and had even hated him, probably, but to see him perish at the supposed hands of Protestants was too much for him, and he had taken his father’s place as the main accuser of the men in black gowns. Before Laurent laid the embers of civil war. The Catholics reclaimed justice for what was perceived as a religious hate crime committed by heretics. If the Protestants were found guilty, no matter which one, the peace talks would crumble, and they would turn against the crown assuredly.

Laurent had to give that to his uncle, it was marvelously played if one was seeking to see him as either a cowardly King, or worse, a King swayed by one religious faction or the other and murderous as that. Govart’s smirk in the hallway, his uncle’s anger at his words, his barely concealed desire for power. He should not be surprised, and yet.

He looked at Damianos to his left, chained and looking saddened and angry at the same time, his companions beside him, dressed in a funerary black and consumed by rage themselves, and he knew he could not jeopardize the peace talks, nor abandon the only man who ever showed kindness to him and who abandoned everything himself for peace. He looked at Aimeric, to his right, murderous and muscles tight. He loved him, more than he could have put into words, and he saw what it would be if he declared the Protestants innocent, reckless mourning-induced acrimony, a crave for vengeance and what they deemed would be justice. He would lose Aimeric to political schemes, the only friend he ever had in court, who was his first everything.

“Your Grace,” the herald called. “What is your judgment?”

He took a steady breath, dressing a silent prayer to Jesus. “I cannot condemn people without evidence, thus was the law of my brother, and my father before him.” A cry of outrage rang in the corridors, completed by coalesce of voices and complaints. “Nonetheless, the crime will be investigated and will not go unpunished. He was a member of court, and anyone could be responsible.”

“Swayed by your first taste of cock,” the words rang loudly in the solemn hallway. Aimeric was standing in front of the dais, his jaw set tight, and gaze defiant as he watched Laurent. Nobody spoke. “All it took was one night to gain your favors? One night with a brute and you’re sucking every last protestant cock, is that it?”

“You are speaking to your King,” Herode thundered. “Such words are a disgrace upon your good name. We understand that grief is a complicated thing, but you should know better, lord Aimeric. The King’s judgement is God’s judgement, and to defy it is to go against God.”

Aimeric fell silent. He spared one last hateful glance toward Damianos, before storming out of the room, his family and allies behind him. In the end, only soldiers, Huguenots and the council remained. One moment of inaction, and he had lost the Catholics, though he doubted he still had them with him ever since he said ‘ _I do_ ’ in Notre-Dame.

“The Huguenots are free to go. But close the gates of the city. No one is to leave until the murderer has been found and trialed. Escort my husband to our chambers.”

*****

Damianos was sitting on the bed, his hands shaking slightly. Laurent delicately closed the door behind him, as not startle him any more. The sound still made him look up. The rim of his eyes were red. He did not comment upon it. Their gaze found each other.

“You have to leave,” was all Laurent said, in a quick, short breath, before he felt his throat tighten. It was his fault France was doomed, and his husband with it. He held back a sob. He had failed everyone, once again.

“I can’t. I won’t.”

“You don’t understand,” Laurent’s voice had risen, and was slightly shaky. “He will kill you, all of you. You all have to leave. I have an estate in Aquitaine, you can stay there until… until whatever it is I have caused today cease.”

“I will not leave Paris. This is my Kingdom now.”

“Stop being so stubborn! Don’t you see what is at stake? You cannot rule if you’re… if you’re dead! I am begging you to leave Paris.”

Laurent remembered Aimeric’s clenched fists, his cutting words and his leveled gaze. He sought justice, believed Damianos to be guilty of the horrors that befell the Catholics, heretic sent by Satan to sway God’s chosen. Perhaps was there some jealousy, at being denied what he deemed to be his right for so long, to have Laurent exclusively.

He remembered the cold gazes of the Catholics, colorful garbs hiding calculating hearts away, as if silks could bias God’s sight and judgment. Most nobles had been soldiers, they had fought and only understood conflict as a clash of steel, no longer used to the subtle art of a discreet murder.

He remembered his uncle’s tight smile when he had first greeted Damianos, his constant calculating gaze when he saw his court and close friends. Laurent realized that, somehow, the marriage had not always been about him, at least at first. It was always about radically easing the tension between Catholics and Protestants, to prove himself worthy of the Catholic church and the Pope, to act as a figure head against protestant Nations, and his plot had made it so that Laurent would be forever remembered as the King who plunged his country into civil unrest. His uncle probably hopped to depose him through a well orchestrated massacre.

 _The disgrace of his line_.

“They won’t kill me.”

“You sound so sure of yourself.”

“They respect the position of King, even if they have no love for Protestants.”

“Except that it is not Aimeric you face, nor is it the Catholics or the Guise. It is my uncle,” his voice cracked at the last word, and he hated himself even more for it. “It is my uncle, and he has no regard for your position, or any affection I could have toward you, or peace or anything else than power and the crown, and killing you, would be the easiest way to reclaim it.”

Damianos stared silently at him. Laurent’s chest was heavily rising and falling to the rhythm of his shuddered breathing. “Leave, now.”

“If what you say is true, than you are not any more safe than I am.”

“I will not leave Paris.”

“Then I will not either. We are allies, Laurent, and I will stand by you. I will accept your asylum on behalf of my court and friends, but I will not leave you here alone.”

“Why? You have nothing to gain from it.”

“You are a good man, Laurent, despite the ice cold attitude you cultivate in public. You are the only man who has ever strived toward peace, and who would do anything to guarantee it. You are selfless and good. You proposed to go against your allies and brothers to defend us. And I promise you that the Protestants are innocent.”

“I know. I know… My uncle has killed Guise.”

“Do you have any proof of that? We could sentence him to die, we could—“

“I cannot prove it. I cannot condemn him without proof, this is the law. I cannot do anything about him. I— I am _powerless_. What irony is this?”

Damianos did not say anything to that, simply stood up. His right hand simply found Laurent’s shoulder, and slowly crept toward his neck. He made his height a comfort, and warm presence over him, like his father or his uncle could have been in another lifetime, perhaps. It rested here, petting the baby hair there, his thumb grazing at the skin. It was warm.

“I’m sorry, Laurent,” Damianos said, and Laurent felt a sob escape him. He wanted to tell Damianos that it was not his fault, that it was his alone, and that he should have been more careful, more observant, more astute, more everything. That he should have known his uncle only had his interests in mind, and not France’s, and that he would gladly sacrifice it for a bejeweled crown and a useless scepter.

He cried, for the first time in years. In front of a man he barely knew, but who proved himself more honest and caring than any other person he had known, except his brother, who was dead now,and his legacy of peace and diplomacy with him. He felt Damianos come toward him, slowly as one might approach a deer, and hold him, gently, openly, the invitation to rebuke him in suspension in the air. Laurent embraced him back, and he cried on his shoulder. He could fell the vibrations of Damianos’ voice, more than he could actually make out what he was saying. He thought he vaguely heard the door open, and Damianos instruct whoever had interrupted them that they were to leave the city, secretly, through a door guarded by Laurent’s men, and find their way to Aquitaine one way or another.

“I will not leave,” Laurent heard Damianos whisper.

“Me neither,” Nikandros answered, and Laurent wanted to berate him for his misplaced love. Tragic love stories could wait until another morning. But Damianos said nothing more, and Laurent was soft with exhaustion in the tender embrace, and could not bother with another debate.

“Stay here, then, lord Nikandros,” he still managed. “In this room, with us. Once you are done.”

*****

Laurent did not remember falling asleep. He woke up, fully dressed, to find the stars still brightly shining in the sky, and the two other men in the room sleeping on a sofa. His heart was beating fast, sparrow like, and his stomach was upset. He felt queasy and wrong. He got out of bed, and carefully, silently made his way to the window. Imperceptibly, shadows were moving in the gardens below, darkened shapes running between the bushes. In the horizons, torches were lit, toward the armory. Fires started running from the stone building, toward the palace and its open halls. Beyond it, Paris was burning too, drowning under fire shots, deaf sounds from where he stood, but thumbing in his veins as if he was near. Laurent’s blood froze.

Thoughtlessly, he dashed for the door, his bare feet smashing the stone with distress. His guards were standing before the door, as well as his husband’s — Makedon, a general, Pallas, Atkis, even frightened Isander —, all awaiting a reaction. “Stay here. Guard the King with your life,” he said to them, before running to the west wing, where the council room was, where the kitchens, and main halls were, the guards’ room and guests’ rooms. He tried not to pay attention to the screams echoing the halls, or the bloodied men trying to find protection in the royal wing, hoping for an ultimate salvation.

The Louvre looked like a battlefield, reeking of blood and death, of despair and hopes crumbling. The Catholics, in their red robes, with crosses dangling from their necks, armed with bayonets and swords, were chasing after Huguenots, maids and servants who did not claim to be Catholic right away, killing them without another thought. He saw Govart, stripping a woman naked before empaling her on his sword, laughing loudly, before turning to him, watching him with hungry eyes and a devilish smirk.

“Who gave the order,” he asked him, as haughtily as he could. Govart laughed.

“God,” he answered, laughing, and Laurent could have killed him right there. “You should hide away, princess. Men, and their pulsions. Who knows what might happen tonight.”

Laurent did not turn back to his room. He trusted the men to defend Damianos, to keep him safe and to defend themselves. He passed Govart, slipping past the huge hand that was threatening to grip him, sinking deeper into the palace, toward a confused melee of corpses, blood and screams. The thought passed his mind, that somewhere, in a street of Paris, the same was happening to civilians and other innocents.

The west wing was a necropolis of protestant figure heads, people that had not been warned to flee or did so too late, high dignitaries from Navarre, ladies and lords, children and elders alike. The council room was empty, but the ink that had not been disposed of was still fresh. His own council had been there mere hours ago, signing a massacre behind his back, to seek a radical justice themselves. He knew who had been there, Jeurre, Marthe, all of his uncle’s men, minus perhaps Herode, who still valued Laurent’s judgement, despite underestimating him. He would have their heads, once he found the ordonnance.

He made it to exit the room, when he bumped into somebody. Govart looked down at him, and Laurent jerked back before he could get his hands on him. The large, compact figure of the soldier was the size of the threshold, blocking the path and obscuring most the hallway behind, except for the vigilant eyes of the royal portraits. Laurent felt them on him.

“Step down, Govart.”

“I told you to get back to your rooms,” he said, taking a step forward that made the King flinch.

“You do not have he authority to order me around. I said, step down.”

Govart scoffed. His blood-shot eyes shone in the halo of the torches, his mouth was twisting in a lax manner, made pliant by debauchery. Still, his foot was hard on the wooden tiles, confident in their direction. Laurent pushed back, until his waist hit the ledge of a table in a scratch of furniture. Turning his back to Govart to jump across the table would have been a mistake, so instead, he grabbed the jar of ink and threw it at the man, who did not have the reflex to avoid it. He momentarily had to close his eyes, to prevent any to get in his eyes, and Laurent took it as his cue to escape. He went straight for the door, bolting toward Govart in an attempt to make him lose his balance, that only resulted in his jacket behind pulled backwards by the soldier. The sound of silks being torn filled the otherwise silent room. Laurent tripped on the ground, the tatters of his royal blue jacket hanging loosely on his frame, the rest of it in Govart’s hand.

The man brought them to his face, to clean the mess, and in an ultimate effort, Laurent stood clumsily and continued to race for the liberating threshold. But Govart was a soldier, and a hunter, and he must have felt him dash by, for he took hold of his bicep as he passed by the bulky silhouette, and squeezed painfully. Laurent trashed in his hold, feeling the embers of fear flame up and childishly enough, his throat tighten. If Govart had his way, he would live to see dawn.

“Let go,” he hissed through clenched teeth, vainly trying to get the man to react to his kicks. His grip did not falter. “Let go of me and I might be merciful enough to kill you right away.”

“You will not be able to do that, come morning, sweetheart. Your uncle was clear.”

His heart clenched in his breast. His last hope of familial love died down as the words sunk in his soul and flesh. His uncle would give him to Govart in particular, brutish, whore-fucking Govart, who had only ever looked at him with a glutton lust ever since he had been old enough to show signs of maturity, and who had guarded the door of his uncle’s rooms, hoping it was him over the boy Laurent had been. In his stupor, he did evade Govart’s blow. He stroke him hard enough to make him fall back and haver. The squeeze on his bicep grew tighter.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Govart press his face to his neck, his pungent breath of the smooth sink there, and the graze of teeth. His complaint died in his throat as Govart brought a hand to his hair, tugging it in the opposite direction of his face, easing his access. Laurent uselessly tried to push him away, but Govart was firm on his feet, all muscles and determination.

He felt a warm liquid drip down his neck, soiling his white undershirt, cascading on his skin. Blood, he thought, and he wondered when Govart had bitten him, for he felt no pain other than in his chest anymore. He wondered if he was numb enough that reality was escaping him. But then, he heard Govart cough, and cough, and cough, and more warmth to his neck, wet and mucilaginous. The hand in his hair dropped nimbly. The soldier’s face rose to face him, pale and ailing, the veins a bright blue on his cheeks, and pupils dilated. His mouth moved in silent pleas, and Laurent could do nothing but watch as the man fell backwards, hitting the floor with a loud thud, squirming and twisting painfully.

Somewhere in his mind, Laurent replaced the crooked nose of the man with a straight one, delicate and regal, on which golden locks came to fell, bond to the skin by sweat. He saw Auguste’s antagonizing blue eyes, on him, his rosy lips blessing him on last time as he laid painfully still in his bed, as Laurent clenched his hand. His uncle had been there too, promising to take care of his little brother and his kingdom, swearing his life to the realm and the crown. Laurent felt nauseous. He indulged a single tear to drop, before he fell to his knees, frantically searching for the order on Govart’s spasming body.

He found it in a pocket of his jacket, sealed with his uncle’s symbol, a two headed eagle taking flight. Initiate the civil war, kill all the Protestant figure heads to secure Catholicism, find my nephew and deal with him lowered you please, and you will be rewarded beyond your expectations. But his uncle had never intend for Govart to live long enough to tell the tale. Dispose of all evidences. Laurent escaped the room without looking back.

*****

The fighting had died down in the halls, blanketed with corpses of martyrs and saints, blood trails covering the ornate walls and the acid smell of war permeating the air. This was what he was the King of now, God’s acre. Soldiers and nobles in red garbs were roaming the palace, watching him with referent and proud eyes, as if their King would approve of their decision to summarily execute his people.

The east wing was still bearing the echoes of shouts. When he arrived to his apartments, it was to find a group of Catholic soldiers in front of his own guard, calm but tense. Both groups turned toward him when they heard him come. Aimeric was leading the Catholics, amber curls in disarray and eyes lost, defeated. He looked as shocked and tormented as any bystander, A young boy was clinging his side, poorly dressed, with a simple protestant cross hanging from a rosary in his hand.

“I’m so sorry, Laurent. I’ve never wanted— I wouldn’t—”

Wordlessly, Laurent opened the door to his chambers, leaving them open for the men outside. Damianos and Nikandros were standing, tense and straight, as well as other servants who served them. When his eyes roamed over Laurent, Damianos let out a strangled whine. He was a bloodied Madonna bathed in candlelight, eyes tranquil but empty, juvenile face set in a motionless trance while his Kingdom died and the schemes of his elders fell on him. His husband slowly walked up to him, his height an invitation, and took him into his arms, slowly rocking him. He let his face rest in the golden hair for a moment, apologizing countless times to Laurent, as if he had just realized what he had meant earlier this night, how cruel his uncle could be.

The men outside soon flooded the room from behind him, a makeshift haven of peace in the chaos outside. Torches were dying out in the gardens, the bells rang loudly in the city, who fell to a mortuary silent just after. No one dared to speak, dared to make this moment a reality. The sun rose slowly behind the window, a new dawn, serene and sensible after the furore of the night.

“I have proof,” Laurent whispered against Damianos.

“Pardon?”

“Proof, of my uncle’s actions and plots. Of his murders and sins. And he shall pay for it all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i PROMISE there will be more damen and laurent/damen in the next chapter 😔 please bare with the crumbs this chapter gives for now..... im sorry


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